


Gods in Ruins

by lightweights



Series: one hand in mine [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Pre-Relationship, and probably some jehan/courf, especially cosette because i adore cosette, idek it just happened, there will be more of the other characters next time i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:27:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightweights/pseuds/lightweights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s the fifth time Enjolras has been arrested since New Year and it’s the fifth time Grantaire has perched on the bench, waiting for his release."</p><p>Enjolras is more than a little battered and, for once, it's Grantaire left to hold everything together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods in Ruins

Grantaire thinks that he might get his name engraved on this bench. 

It seems like a feasible idea since it’s only April but it’s the fifth time in the space of three months that he’s sat on the uncomfortable metal seat in the police station. He’s intimately acquainted with the entirety of the waiting area, too, knowing the name of the girl behind the desk—Jessica, and she’s unfriendly, aloof, and takes pleasure in watching Enjolras emerge from the holding rooms, much bloodier than he had upon entering them—he knows how to get a free soda out of the machine in the corner and he knows where to park if he’s going to be a while and has no money to pay for a ticket. He’s as familiar with the police station as he is with his apartment, which is a rather horrifying prospect. 

The reason for this is that it’s the fifth time Enjolras has been arrested since New Year and it’s the fifth time Grantaire has perched on this very bench, waiting for his release. 

Today, however, is different in that the protest they had been attending had gone spectacularly, catastrophically wrong. As a result of forming a protective barrier around Enjolras, Marius, Bossuet, and Jehan had all taken severe blows and all needed medical attention beyond what Joly could provide—which obviously resulted in Joly nearly hyperventilating—and so Courfeyrac, Cosette, and Musichetta had all accompanied them to the hospital. Combeferre had had to drive Éponine home to collect Gavroche from school because Éponine doesn't have her own car and it’s never a good idea to leave Gavroche home alone as he is likely to get into any and all kinds of trouble. All this has left Grantaire to wait for the Police to turn Enjolras free, equipped with nothing but the bulging medical kit Joly had stuffed into his hands and did he mention this was meant to be a peaceful protest? 

“How much longer?” he demands as Jessica trots passed him, looking far too happy for someone who spends hours on end inside these four grey walls. 

He doesn’t receive a definite answer and so he buries his face in his hands, every muscle weary. There had been such excitement in the air in the lead up to the protest. Everyone—except Grantaire, who is far too cynical to be healthy according to Enjolras—was filled with hope, convinced that they would be successful in campaigning against the government’s appalling treatment of immigrants. Their success had seemed certain to them, practically spelt out in the stars, and so they had ignored Grantaire’s running commentary on how it was a waste of time as Enjolras coached them on what to do in a police interrogation and as they had padded their coats out to protect them from potential blows. Even when the police had descended in a dark wave, there had still been a determined hope written all over Enjolras’ face and it had cracked Grantaire’s heart a little. 

And that’s part of the reason he waits. He needs to ensure that Enjolras hasn’t been completely crushed by this set back, to ensure he is still ready to tear the Government down, and so he had told Joly not to worry, to get Bossuet to the hospital and that he’d be fine, he could drive, he’d wait for Enjolras. 

A particularly noisy arrival fills the space, occupying Grantaire for a while as he tries not to protest at the way the police fling the man around as though he is a rag doll. It’s actually sickening—and this is coming from someone as cynical as Grantaire, who doesn’t believe in worrying about larger problems than how to pay his monthly rent. Perhaps, he thinks, Enjolras is rubbing off on him. When the room has cleared, the Police hauling another young boy off to the cells, Grantaire sees Enjolras—finally—emerging from a door with blood crusted on his skin—blood that had definitely not been there when he had been arrested. 

Oh.

Grantaire rises to his feet, crossing to Enjolras’ side and waiting impatiently as he is officially released and un-cuffed. The handcuffs have rubbed the skin on his wrists raw and Enjolras absently massages the reddened flesh; Grantaire wants to place kisses at the pulse points and whisper that it’ll be okay. Instead, he tucks his hands into his pockets and remains stoically silent. There’s nothing to say, not here and not now. 

It’s always difficult being around Enjolras at times like this. For the most part, Enjolras is charming with a devastating smile that could halt an army in its tracks and the kind of face that Grantaire thinks is suited to a God but all of this is tangled with Enjolras' capability of being utterly terrible, likely to fight until his last breath for any cause and liable to lash out when he doesn’t get his own way. Grantaire has seen him in this situation numerous times before but Combeferre or Cosette are usually present, there to smooth over the everything, calming the waters so that no one is too badly hurt by the inevitable nuclear meltdown. Grantaire is usually back-up, on standby as Cosette’s sweetness and Combeferre’s efficiency prove to be the only tools necessary to get Enjolras out of jail. Today, however, Grantaire is alone and Enjolras’ posture is rigid, fury accounting for the thrown-back shoulders and defiant chin. 

“Thank you,” Enjolras says to Jessica with a frosty formality that is more intimidating than can be articulated, placing the clipboard containing the forms down on the desk. “Thank you for a wonderful overnight stay, courtesy of the State. Have a lovely day.” 

He moves then, heading towards the double doors of the police station, towards freedom. He’s walking slightly more slowly than normal, trying to disguise the limp, but Grantaire notices it anyway. Yet he makes no move to offer any assistance, knowing that Enjolras needs to walk out of there on his own, one final ' _fuck you_ ' to the system. Grantaire understands rather a lot about Enjolras, and it’s on days like today that he’s grateful for that. 

Enjolras is quiet for the five minute walk to the battered car Grantaire drives, his limp becoming more and more prominent with each step he takes until he half collapses into the passenger seat, his expression contorted into a mask of pain. Grantaire just roots around in the medical kit until he can hand a pack of aspirin over with the bottle of sparkling water that Cosette had left. 

“I need to clean those cuts,” Grantaire tells Enjolras in the calmest voice he is capable of, watching Enjolras dry-swallow the pills and rub his hand over a particularly nasty bruise above his eyebrow. 

“Please,” Enjolras snaps with a derisive snort, “I do not need anyone to treat me like a child, especially not you. You’re not a nurse and you can barely even look after yourself so how do you propose to look after me?”

“We can do this the easy way, where I do it,” Grantaire says, ignoring the deliberate jibes that Enjolras is throwing at him as he fights to keep himself collected and reasonable. “Or I can take you to the hospital. Ball’s in your court, Apollo.” 

Enjolras scowls as Grantaire upends the medical kit to find the packet of antiseptic wipes. He expects more of a fight, if he’s honest, but Enjolras just angles his face to allow Grantaire to access it, clearly deciding Grantaire is the lesser of two evils. 

Up close, the damage is worse and Grantaire has to swallow his panic several times as he dabs gently at the cuts, clearing away flecks of blood from the mottled tapestry of bruises that is Enjolras’ skin. Enjolras’ hands are furled into tight fists, the knuckles shining white through the thin layer of flesh the only indication of the pain he is in. Yes, Grantaire thinks, Enjolras could be a statue; he doesn’t seem to have fragile human bones for a skeleton, but rods of marble that make him appear that little bit more indestructible than lesser mortals. Or so Enjolras thinks, because marble can be shattered and the proof of that is spilling across the seat of Grantaire’s car, dried blood and bruises all evidence of his ultimate humanity. 

Some of the cuts are sufficiently deep, deep enough to warrant band aids and Enjolras sits very still as Grantaire uses butterfly bandages to hold the worst together, not saying a word about the way Grantaire’s hands are trembling or the way he slips and accidentally elbows Enjolras in the battered ribs. Grantaire is grateful for this because it’s taking all of his concentration; he doesn’t think he could cope with Enjolras’ anger or, worse, irritation when he’s trying to focus so hard that a headache is beginning, his brain pounding against his skull. And even thought it’s scary to see Enjolras so stiff and silent, a stark contrast to the burning God he had been twenty-four hours ago, Grantaire just accepts the quiet. There’s nothing he can do to change the situation, so why waste words? 

He finishes doing what he can to hold Enjolras together with band aids and pulls away, sitting back in the driver’s seat to toss the used, bloody wipes into the back of the car. Enjolras maintains his silence, touching his split lip absently whilst Grantaire dries his hands on his jeans before starting the car with renewed determination to get them both home. He pauses, however, before putting the car into gear and turns back to Enjolras. 

“You alright?” he asks carefully, his dark blue eyes skimming over the impressive figure that Enjolras cuts, even with the patchy first aid. He notices how Enjolras holds one arm across his ribs, probably attempting to hide the extent of the damage, and how he is screwing his eyes up like the sunlight is bothering him. He is a God in ruins, falling apart at the seams, and this is all new, uncharted territory for both of them. 

Enjolras manages a curt nod but Grantaire peels off his navy jumper and hands the crumpled wool to his friend anyway, not wanting him to be cold now that his jacket, which is sticky with blood, is crumpled in the back seat. Half of him expects Enjolras to throw the jumper back at him but Enjolras accepts it without comment and jams it roughly over his head, making Grantaire shudder because that really can’t be good for the damage already done to his torso. 

There is no thanks offered and Grantaire recognises that Enjolras doesn’t want to speak as he reverses out of the space he had parked haphazardly in. The silence doesn’t really bother him and so he doesn’t think much of it until they are back on the streets, Grantaire trying not to tap his fingers against the wheel as he is prone to do when he’s driving.

“I don’t know why you came,” Enjolras says suddenly, breaking the quiet in a voice that is pure ferocity, barely contained anger colouring every syllable. “You don’t even believe that these protests will accomplish anything, you hate the fact we try to help those in dire conditions in third world countries as well as those who live appallingly here. You tell me constantly that this is a waste of time, and yet here you are—here, even though for the last two weeks you have been saying the protest was stupid. You said from the beginning that this was a bad idea so if you’re taking me home so that you can gloat, you can just fuck off.”

The last part of the sentence is spat out, as though Grantaire is just that repulsive, and Grantaire’s hands flex around the steering wheel as he tries not to let the words wound him. There’s no point in arguing with the first part because it’s a well known fact that Grantaire doesn’t believe in any of what he terms “ _revolutionary shit_ ”, but the fact that Enjolras thinks he’s only there to revel in the failure hurts him more than anything else Enjolras has ever said to him. It makes him wonder why Enjolras’ opinion of him is so horribly low, what he has done to make Enjolras think he would take pleasure in his friends’ pain, and what he can do to prove that he isn’t in the middle of this to be smug that it all went wrong. 

He wants to say that would never be triumphant over something that resulted in Enjolras hurting—ever—but the simple answer is that Grantaire can’t do anything, least of all change Enjolras’ opinion of him, and so and so he just turns the heat up so that he has something to do. 

“I’m not going to be triumphant because the protest was a failure,” he says shortly because he understands that Enjolras just wants someone to lash out at—he does know that, really—but it’s a little like someone has slipped a knife between the gap in his ribs and twisted. 

“You don’t believe in anything, you just come along to meetings to try and undermine any success we might have,” Enjolras says, his voice colder than it should be possible to be. His eyes, when Grantaire drags his attention from the road to look into them, aren’t ablaze with fervour but with a bitter kind of fury, monsters lurking, ready to attack. 

There have always been demons in Enjolras’ eyes. No-one ever looks close enough, Grantaire thinks, and the flame of revolution usually keeps them at bay but today, when Enjolras is broken down, they are prominent and they are vicious. 

“You know that isn’t strictly true, Apollo,” Grantaire replies, turning his attention to the road, “I believe in you.” 

Enjolras doesn’t reply. Grantaire sneaks a rightward glance after a moment to find Enjolras staring out of his window and rubbing his shoulder with one hand, seemingly unaware that he is doing it. Even though he’s clearly furious and in pain, Grantaire cannot help the feeling of relief that overwhelms him. He hates himself a little but he’s thanking his lucky stars that Enjolras isn’t using ugly jagged words to rip Grantaire apart from the inside because the absence of alcohol is making Grantaire’s arteries feel empty and he doesn’t think he will be able to take one of Enjolras’ famed verbal assaults. Not right now. 

At some point, probably ten minutes into the drive, Enjolras falls asleep, his head cradled by the seatbelt and Grantaire’s jumper wrapped around him with his hand pressing the sleeve of the jumper over his nose. The bruises look worse now, vividly contrasting to Enjolras’ pale complexion and golden hair and Grantaire is desperate to know what went on during the police interrogation but he knows that Enjolras won’t disclose that to him, even if he asks. So he lets Enjolras sleep and drives with the music on low so that it doesn’t wake him because Enjolras looks about ten stages past exhausted. And no matter what Enjolras thinks, Grantaire cares about him. 

The journey lasts for about an hour and a half, Grantaire half focussed on the road and half focussed on his passenger. There’s something about a slumbering Enjolras that invokes a swirling mess of emotions inside of Grantaire because, he realises, he has never seen Enjolras asleep before. He doesn’t think anyone except Combeferre has been awarded this honour because sleep is something Enjolras rarely indulges in. He can run on coffee (organic, mind you) and nothing else apart from the fire that burns inside of him, the one that pushes him on in his endeavour to change the world. Seeing this new, oddly vulnerable side of Enjolras feels like a privilege and Grantaire wants to make the most of it, to observe the way Enjolras’ eyelashes are long enough to brush his high cheekbones and to witness how, in sleep, he burrows his head into the seatbelt. After all, he doesn't know if he'll get to see it again. 

Enjolras is still fast asleep when Grantaire pulls up outside the apartment he shares with Courfeyrac and Grantaire doesn’t have the heart to disturb Enjolras. There are several reasons for this, the first and foremost being that Enjolras needs rest following the events of the previous day and the range that accompany it vary from self preservation to finding the prospect of waking Enjolras preposterous because he looks so young and _innocent_. 

Enjolras murmurs something unintelligible as Grantaire struggles to lift him from the car but he flings an arm around Grantaire’s neck and hides his face in Grantaire’s shoulder—which shouldn’t feel as good as it does, oh _God_. Grantaire is hyper-aware of Enjolras’ grip on him and how bizarre this must look, Grantaire carrying a drained and broken Enjolras into the apartment and praising the fact he and Courf have an apartment on the ground floor. After all, Grantaire has the lungs of a smoker and so attempting to get Enjolras up several flights of stairs would not end well to say the least. 

Courfeyrac isn’t home, yet another blessing Grantaire has to be thankful for as he lays Enjolras down on his bed, reaching the conclusion it would be decidedly weird to take Enjolras’ shoes off for him. He leaves Enjolras there, looking oddly out of place in the midst of Grantaire’s books, clothes, and MacBook, and retreats to the living room because he really needs a fucking drink. 

Fifteen minutes and half a bottle of wine later, Grantaire wonders if it was really the best idea to leave Enjolras unsupervised in his bedroom where there are numerous things that would horrify him, namely Grantaire’s books. But moving either Enjolras (again) or Grantaire’s possessions (not that he could move his books; Grantaire collects books the way normal people collect bottle tops of movie tickets) would run the risk of disturbing Enjolras and Grantaire doesn’t want to do that so he stays on the couch with his wine for a further two hours before deciding he should probably check on his friend. 

Enjolras is still wrapped up in his own subconscious so Grantaire just draws the blankets over Enjolras’ worn form, grabs his copy of Kafka’s _The Trial_ from the top of a teetering pile of books, and slips from the room. 

Warmth fills him as soon as he feels the novel clutched between two hands. You see, Grantaire loves books almost as much as he loves Enjolras. Books have always been the one constant in Grantaire’s life, the friend he can always count on. A paper world in which he can get lost when reality gets too much, something to distract him from the drinking and the smoking and the fierce glares Enjolras sends when Grantaire is being particularly difficult. All of this means that Grantaire treats books with what he considers to be affection but with what Enjolras would probably regard as violation. 

All of Grantaire’s books have pages that are so dog eared that the book appears to be twice its normal thickness, and all the spines are ruined from being so well thumbed. Circles of coffee stain the pages where Grantaire has used mugs as bookmarks; the margins are filled with notes for essays—or notes that tear the plot apart—and, if the pages have managed to escape being annotated for academic use, they have been dropped in bath, have favourite sentences underlined, have been read in the rain, or pursued on the beach so that grains of sand jam the spine and crinkle the pages. 

Grantaire is of the opinion that this demonstrates love. You can’t truly claim to love a book until you have poured your opinion into it by marring the pages with your own thoughts. He knows, however that Enjolras keeps his books meticulously organised and totally unblemished and therefore has spent the last two years hiding his literary collection from the other man, keeping all of them jammed into his bedroom so that Enjolras won’t see them and have another reason to disapprove. Because Grantaire cares about what Enjolras thinks, really. Even if Grantaire won’t— _can’t_ —agree with Enjolras’ theories regarding equality, he cares what Enjolras thinks of him. 

After pulling the bedroom door to, Grantaire flops gracelessly onto the sofa, flipping through _The Trial_ to find his page and folding his legs beneath him. Grantaire knows a lot of people who dislike Kafka but he personally doesn’t mind him, and _The Trial_ is interesting enough to occupy him for a few hours. With a wine glass balanced between his thighs and a book in his hand, Grantaire actually feels happy and somewhat relaxed for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, the endless minutes of waiting and worry fading to a memory. 

He has actually only read for about an hour when Enjolras appears in the doorway, wearing Grantaire’s favourite plaid flannel pyjama pants and the tee-shirt that Grantaire had worn the other day and that hasn’t been washed yet. Enjolras still looks shattered, his face far too pale and his eyes bloodshot but, admittedly, he looks more human and less like the corpse he had resembled earlier in the day. It’s progress, Grantaire supposes. 

“Hi,” Enjolras manages, his voice low and uneven as he crosses the room to sink into the sofa cushions next to Grantaire. He’s trailing Grantaire’s comforter like a cloak; once he has tucked his feet beneath him, Grantaire reaches out to pull the covers fully over him to keep him warm. 

“Hi,” Grantaire returns, arranging the blanket to cover Enjolras’ feet as Enjolras flashes him a grateful smile and adjusts his position so that he’s leaning ever so slightly towards Grantaire. It’s all so very different from the way they had left the police station, and Grantaire is certainly not complaining as he speaks once more, trying to ignore the uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. “You didn’t sleep for very long.”

“I know,” Enjolras replies, drawing Grantaire’s extremely abused copy of _Lolita_ out from beneath the blankets. Grantaire feels like the bottom has just fallen out of his stomach—of course Enjolras will have explored his room. “I woke up with this digging into my back—how you can sleep in that bed I will never understand, it’s full of books—and I’ve never read this before. I have, however, heard you rave about it enough times, so I wanted to try it.”

“You read it?” Grantaire asks, his heart rate picking up so that it’s thudding against the cage of his ribs because Enjolras has listened to him speak, really listened and remembered. “You cannot have read all of it, Enjolras, that’s impossible, even for you.”

Enjolras smiles at him as the book falls open about half way mark, the result of the spine being so scarred and cracked. Grantaire can see his own scrawl—which he terms as _artistic_ and not _illegible_ , thank you—commenting on Nabokov’s prose and how he has underlined certain words or sentences with such force than the pencil marks seem black against the yellowing paper. 

“No, not all of it,” Enjolras says, his thumb tracing the indents in the paper, made by Grantaire’s pencil. “I can read fast but not that fast, R.”

Grantaire knows that he should be relieved that Enjolras is addressing him with his nickname in a tone that is definitely affectionate, but he can’t help waiting for Enjolras to snap and finish the attack he had started on the car journey home. It doesn’t feel right, to leave a fight between them unfinished. It’s not what they do. 

“I do disagree with you regarding the idea that this is a beautiful novel,” Enjolras continues, tilting the book slightly. “It’s very disturbing, immoral to the very core of the story, and the main plot is centred around a raging paedophile. Not quite my idea of beauty.”

“But the _prose_!” Grantaire cries, suddenly impassioned for reasons that he can’t understand. “Nabokov’s prose can’t be rivalled in terms of beauty! The man strings words together in a way that’s so haunting it can’t not be beautiful. I’ll acquiescence that the storyline is fucked up but you cannot dispute the prose being magnificent.” 

A pause. Enjolras is looking at him like he has never seen Grantaire before. _Lolita_ is lying nearly forgotten in his lap as Enjolras’ full attention has shifted to Grantaire, and Grantaire isn’t sure what to do under this level of observation. They’ve gravitated closer together without Grantaire noticing or being actively aware of it but now he can see how deep the painful looking cut on Enjolras’ lower lip is and can make out the flecks of grey in Enjolras’ very blue eyes. 

“I don’t suppose I can,” Enjolras says quietly, drawing Grantaire’s attention back to the book they are discussing as Enjolras runs his pale hands down the page once more. “You know, the way you feel about literature is the way I feel about equality. I can see it in your eyes.” 

Grantaire wants to say that maybe it’s just Nabokov, because reading Nabokov was the reason he chose to major in World Literature or he could say that he just feels strongly because he wrote a whole essay on _Lolita_ and it took up his life for three weeks but got an excellent mark. But he just looks at Enjolras and offers him a small smile, one which Enjolras tentatively returns. 

“Are you—“ Grantaire cuts himself off, swallowing his words because bringing up what had been said in the car will not end well and he knows it. 

“What?” Enjolras asks, looking down at Grantaire. 

“Are you going to finish the book?” Grantaire asks instead, and Enjolras looks down at _Lolita_. “It’s good. I’m sure we could disagree over lots of points to do with it.”

“I don’t actually enjoy disagreeing with you constantly, you know,” Enjolras tells him and Grantaire witnesses another hesitant smile grace Enjolras’ features. “I enjoy the chance to debate my points, certainly, but I dislike it when we really argue.” 

Grantaire makes a noise of agreement and Enjolras shifts, un-tucking the blanket from around himself and moving even closer. He lifts the corner of the comforter in a clear invitation for Grantaire to join him in the warmth, a gesture which Grantaire recognises immediately as a peace offering. Enjolras doesn’t apologise, but he will walk around Grantaire on eggshells until making a cautious gesture to reaffirm their friendship. 

Of course Grantaire forgives him every time and this is no exception. He inches closer to Enjolras, allowing the blonde man to wrap the comforter tightly around both of them. Their shoulders brush against each other every time one of them moves and Grantaire can feel Enjolras’ thigh jostling his. Yes, this is Enjolras making amends. 

“R?” Enjolras asks, his eyelids clearly heavy with tiredness once more as he holds _Lolita_ to his chest. “Will you talk to me? Tell me about literature?”

And so Grantaire speaks, discussing the one area in which he is superior to all his friends. He tells Enjolras about how Jehan and he beg to differ—Jehan likes Keats, Grantaire doesn’t, essentially, but really there’s so much more to it than that—and how, obviously, nothing can ever compare to Nabokov’s _Pale Fire_ , apart from _Beowulf_ but that’s a whole different discussion. It’s only when Enjolras is on the verge of falling asleep that Grantaire allows his narrative to taper off into silence, content with just watching the dust motes sparkle in the sunlight and feel Enjolras’ body slumped against his. 

“R?” Enjolras mumbles again, barely coherent but managing to squint at Grantaire. “About what I said in the car... I’m glad you came, I’m glad you were there.” 

Grantaire doesn’t get an opportunity to reply because by the time the words have sunk in, twisting themselves around Grantaire’s very bones, Enjolras succumbs to sleep, his head falling onto Grantaire’s shoulder. There’s something so right about the heavy weight that pushes Grantaire into the cushions that he doesn’t even care that he can’t pour himself more wine because the natural thing to do is close his own eyes and listen to Enjolras’ breathing even out until dreams overcome him, too. 

And if they wake up with their arms looped around each other, neither of them mentions it.


End file.
